A break in the clouds
by AnnieXMuller
Summary: Post-ep for Cloudy with a Chance of Murder. Picks up the moment the ep ends. There's still some lingering anger, fears and doubts. There's still forgiveness to be found.


**A Break in the Clouds**

* * *

He sleeps on her couch that night.

* * *

Her feet bare, she steps around him, her eyes avoiding his inquisitive gaze as she locks the door. Making her way through her apartment, she turns off the last of the soft lamps still burning, flicks a couple of switches to their_off_ positions, and continues to put distance between them. She doesn't look back.

He's hopeful, unable to suppress the smile tugging at his lips; she hasn't kicked him out yet, she has locked him inside, and he's feeling a little victorious.

He still feels like a jackass though.

Her bedroom door opens. He hears the slight squeak of the hinges and he thinks about how he should fix that for her. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it's a safety squeak, a noise she allows because it wakes her if someone should intrude on her bedroom. She has lived, longer than anyone should have to, knowing people want her dead. So, he'll ask her first, because he's learning that this is something he must do, that she is someone who must grant permission.

The follow up creak, the soft sound of a door clicking closed, is absent. She has left her bedroom door open.

He considers it a silent invitation, and yet he hesitates. He could follow: talk, or not talk, sleep beside her, or lay staring at the ceiling all night, make love to her, or allow her to throw him down and have her way with him.

He turns toward her couch, removes his jacket as a sigh leaves his lips. No. He won't follow.

He won't leave either.

* * *

Kate tugs the nightshirt over her head and slips naked under the cool sheets. The night is warm, but the bed feels so much colder without him in it. Curling up on her side, her palm falls flat upon the empty space beside her. It's so cold it almost burns her skin.

They've slept together more nights than they've slept apart since she knocked on his door, rain dripping from her hair, down her face, through her shirt.

Sounds carry through her darkened apartment; she hears the soft creaking of her couch, protesting under his weight as he sinks into it, and she knows he won't be leaving tonight. Her fingers skim up the sheet to rest upon the pillow that still carries the scent of him. She toys with the edge of it, following the seams, silently considering how this night will end.

No. She will not go to him, will not be the one to make it right. Because, for all the smiles she may have allowed him to see earlier, she's still hurting.

Boobs. Hips. Curves she doesn't have. She's still fighting the lingering doubts, and the fears that she just can't shake. Another woman's lips were on his, her lipstick smeared across his face; another woman's hips were straddling his, her pelvis brushing his. Bikini-clad and buxom, the visuals seem permanently burned into her memory, and her insecurities overwhelm her.

Turning onto her back in an angry huff, she clenches her fists, her nails pressing painfully into her palms. She covers her breasts with her arms and rests her hands upon her scar - and fixes her eyes on the ceiling above.

After twenty minutes of staring at the flat, white, surface, she finally accepts that sleep will not come easy tonight.

Pushing up into a sitting position, her palms pressed firm upon the mattress to stabilize herself, she makes a decision. Tired, and frustrated, she throws the sheet back and swings her legs around. She hooks her nightshirt with her toes, and flicks it up off the floor. Pulling it impatiently over her head she frees her tied-back hair from the collar and moves quietly through her living room.

She is not going to him. He's not what she needs now. What she needs is sweetness and comfort, the taste of innocence to soothe away the jealous thoughts and lull her to sleep. What she needs is cocoa.

As she pads toward her kitchen her vision adjusts quickly in the dimly-lit room, and she spies the motionless shape on her couch. Mid-step, she pivots on the ball of her foot, and moves toward him. Sleep is clearly something he has had no trouble finding. He is curled on his side, turned her way, breathing slow and deep. She hesitates, purses her lips, and scrunches up her nose at her lack of resolve, before crouching down near where his head rests on a cushion.  
Her hand is already raised, poised to brush a stray lock of hair away from his eyes, when she sees her mistake.

He's not sleeping.

* * *

His fingers curl around her wrist as she turns her head away from him and stands. "Please, Kate," he says softly. He sits up, tries to tugs her down beside him, but she's not having any of it. She pulls back, stays on her feet, but he doesn't release his hold.  
She glares down at him, but even in the darkened room he can see the shimmer in her eyes, the tears desperate to flow down her cheeks while she fights to hold them back.

His thumb caresses her pulse point, where her skin is thin, softer, lighter in tone.

"Did you touch her like this, Castle?" Kate's voice is low, tinged with venom.

Her words are enough to still his thumb, but he doesn't release her hand. "I didn't touch her, Kate."

The silence is deafening. When she finally speaks he misses the silence. "Did you want to?"

These are the conversations they never dared have like this before. Questions that perhaps would have once been asked with light amusement-laced tones are now spat at him through the dark veil of night.

"No," he replies firmly. Earlier, when she pulled back away from the kiss, he had seen through her smile. He sees that hurt still shining in her green-tinged eyes. For all her talk of boobs in faces, he knew what she really saw when she looked at him: a jackass, with a history of two failed marriages, who was idiotic enough to agree to a date with a woman whose reputation precedes her.

She nods slightly, but still pulls back when he tugs gently on her wrist again.

"Kate…" One word. That's all he manages. What more can he say? And he can't lie. He checked out Kristina's ass, and with her breasts so close to his face he really couldn't help but look. But he didn't want her. "Just you, Kate." He finally manages to articulate his thoughts. He exhales a slow, relieved, breath as her features soften. "Just you." With his final two words, he loosens his hold on her. She slips her hand up, links her fingers with his, and squeezes.

Her eyes are warmer; the fears are easing.

_They're dating, and they're exclusive._

She is pulling him up off the couch, leading him through her apartment. She is taking him to her bedroom, and not pushing him out the door. He squeezes her hand, gets her attention, and halts their journey. He faces her, his fingers sweeping up her cheek, but he doesn't kiss her. She meets his eyes, graces him with a small smile; it doesn't quite feel like forgiveness, more like a promise that she's almost there. Her fingers toy with a button on her nightshirt as she steps into her bedroom, and her eyes never leave his.

* * *

He appears hesitant still, loitering just outside her bedroom. He has screwed up, and he knows it. She sees his lips twitch, expects another apology to leave his lips. What she doesn't expect is:

"Did we DTR?"

She blinks at him in confusion as she sits slowly down on the side of her bed. He hasn't moved from the doorway, and now he's throwing letters at her that she just doesn't understand. "DTR?"

"Define the relationship," he explains.

"DTR, Castle? What are we, sixteen?" She keeps control over her voice. Neither angry, nor amused, just curious.

He shrugs slightly. "Alexis watches MTV. I overhear things."

"Mmmhmmm," she replies. She's pretty sure that by "overhear things" what he really means is "sit and watch with her."

He lingers at the door still. One foot in her bedroom, one foot out, teetering between rushing towards her and slinking away like a dog with its tail between its legs.

When she walked in on them, Castle on the couch, the tramp in her bikini kissing lips she shouldn't have been, all her insecurities had come rushing to the surface at once. Did she know Castle wouldn't have taken it any further? As much as she may have said "I know" earlier, did she really? Two failed marriages, an endless string of hook-ups. How different was this man now to the one she met four years prior, to the one whose photo had turned up on page six more than she'll admit to having looked at.  
She replays how it looked. Now that her green eyes are back to their usual hazel she reviews the moment she burst through his door; she sees him struggling, pushing the woman away. And she believes him completely.

"Come 'ere, Castle." He pushes himself away from the frame, and moves to where she sits. He doesn't undress as he steps toward her.

She has almost completely undone her shirt, but the two edges of her pajamas sit close together, two lower buttons still in place, and giving nothing away.

He sits carefully beside her, his head still downcast. He exhales a long slow breath, and she watches his entire body deflate.  
And how can she not forgive him?  
She reaches for his hand and guides it between her open shirt. She holds a breath as his fingers make contact with her skin. For a moment he doesn't move; his fingers stay pressed upon her flesh, held in place by her own hand. Then his body relaxes, and she removes her hand from his.

His fingertips glide down from her chest, over her scar, around the curve of her breast. He cups her, holds the weight of her in his palm, his thumb brushing lightly across a nipple as she arches into his touch.

He kisses her while she's distracted, unsuspecting. Instead of pulling away, she presses against him. Her mouth opens, her tongue sliding against his, and her fingers are hooking into his belt loops, and pulling his closer.

He squeezes her breast as her mouth assaults his; he rolls her nipple between the roughened pad of his thumb and forefinger, and he feels her moan vibrate against his lips.

They break apart, both feeling breathless, hopeful, and forgiven. He moves his hand from her breast and brushes the fabric of her shirt aside, opening it up and exposing her to the cool air in her bedroom.

And, God, he loves her.

And, God, he just wants to fuck it out. This whole day, his stupidity, her jealousy.

He needs to touch more of_ her_.

* * *

Never go to bed angry. That was something her mother told her once, something she had always tried to stick to, but often failed. Ultimately, her mother's voice in her head had been what had moved her to open the door to his apologetic face in the first place. That, and if she hadn't she would have had to put up with a barrage of missed calls from him. That, and if she hadn't she risked damaging this amazing, special thing they were building.

And who was she kidding? She would never have let him spend the entire night on her couch.

His palm, hot and heavy, strokes up and down her thigh, slipping under the seam of her shirt. A soft sigh leaves her lips. He _is_ all she needs now.

* * *

His fingers move fluidly from her warm skin to graze barely-there curls and damp heat. His movements cease and the sly smirk returns.

She raises her eyebrows at his smile. "You should know this about me by now, Castle."

He should. He does. But he had assumed, well… her lack of underwear at night had been because of him and not because…

Flashes of memory hit him then; nights, so long ago now, when she had slept in his guestroom. Nights when he had stood outside the door, just passing by, and held his breath for a moment at the realization Kate Beckett was asleep under his roof.  
Another flash. Another night. A shared dinner on a couch in an LA hotel room, and Beckett in her sleeping clothes.

No underwear.

God, that was hot.

* * *

She inhales a sharp breath, her hips jutting forward, pressing herself into his hand.

Love propels her forward; she moves without fear, pressing him down along the length of the bed, straddling his hips.

Images are erased, replaced.

* * *

He slept on her couch for a mere thirty minutes that night.


End file.
